Story Old Houses

[FMJ]

This is a short story to introduce a series called, strangely enough, Old Houses.

Old Houses
Intro
FMJ​

Old houses talk of bygone days. They creak when they sway in the wind as their heavy wooden timbers flex. The rain and humidity makes their proud dark woodwork expand and contract ultimately loosening the secure hold it once boasted. They have outlived their builders and many of their second, or fourth or even seventh owners. Summer nights with soft music and quiet talk over carefully prepared meals punctuated with drinks to celebrate important lasting accomplishments were enjoyed. People built them and loved them or bought them to raise families that have all grown up and moved away or fragmented and disappeared. Happy voices and songs would echo from halls and rooms on holidays and birthdays and anniversaries. Christmas trees and beautiful cards with snow covered scenes were displayed and crepe paper streamers and cakes with candles marked festive occasions. Little feet would run from room to room with glee playing hide and seek and a dozen other children’s games with little regard for the past or the future. Decorations heralded the holidays with decreasing frequency in the passing years as their time would slowly wind down. Old houses hold secrets that their builders and owners have left with them for safekeeping. The despair of a lost soul that walked darkened lonely halls in the wee hours of the morning. The sole surviving sick and dying spouse that has left this world with only the old house to witness their passing. Their foundations have supported the floors walked by generations of people that have either added something to this world or have sullenly taken and left. Some are truly missed by those old houses and some are not.

 

[FMJ]

Bell, Book and Candle
FMJ

The house was built on Vanden Street around 1923. Legend had it that the builder and first owner was none other than the tall, thin right Reverend Isaac Jones and his young wife, Sarah. Reverend Jones believed deeply in the Orthodox Christian faith and spoke a blessing over the building site as was done traditionally with the word and water. The construction of the new house took almost two years to complete, including the removal of the blackened hulk of an older house at the site. It was said that the old house had caught fire in the middle of the night in December of that terrible winter of 1906 taking the lives of the entire household as well as those of a family visiting from Chicago. Deep snow and freezing cold temperatures prevented the fire department from fighting the blaze that quickly engulfed the structure. It was not possible to identify any of the bodies recovered from the home two days later and all were buried straight away after a simple Christian ceremony. A plot in a portion of the little cemetery on the hill was provided in the belief that relatives of these people would surely come looking for them in the spring and they could then be exhumed so their earthly remains could be properly cared for and finally taken home. There were no stones to mark the resting places of the dead, but the locations of the graves were carefully noted and the records stored in a nearby church for safekeeping. But no one came that next spring or the one after to inquire about the whereabouts of the unknown family and memory began to fade. In 1909, the church burned to the ground destroying the records and forever sealed a dozen poor souls from ever resting in a marked grave.

 

[FMJ]

The new house had a large parlor and sitting room that would provide ample space for the families of Reverend Jones’ small flock to congregate and attend prayer meetings in those days. There in those rooms, they would pray earnestly, they were baptized and souls were saved. They would pay their last respects to their dearly departed often laid to rest in simple pine coffins with the deep ringing voice of the stern Reverend Jones preaching the memorial. They always dreamed about the day when they would build a new church that would bring their small congregation new life in God’s house but times were hard.
In the spring of 1925, Isaac was overjoyed when Sarah told him she was with child. Sarah believed she would give birth in late November or December and she set about preparing a nursery and sewing baby clothes. Women from the church held a shower and donated things she would need. The summer passed to fall as Sarah’s pregnancy became evident. As the leaves began to change, a chill autumn wind announced an early winter as the young couple prepared to welcome their first child. A thick white blanket of snow fell in mid November muffling all sounds as the ceaseless wind piled up drifts that closed the roads. In the second week of December, Sarah went into labor and Isaac went to get the midwife to help with the birth. A day later, despite her best efforts to bring the child into the world, Sarah began to hemorrhage and ultimately died in childbirth followed soon after by her infant daughter. The right Reverend Isaac Jones was overcome with grief at the loss of his young wife and child. Against the advice of friends, the Reverend preached the eulogy over his own wife and stillborn daughter in the parlor of their new house. Sarah was buried with her infant daughter in her arms in the little cemetery on the hill. It was said that afterward, the Reverend Jones withered and died of grief the following spring and the house sat empty for several years.

 

[Mr Bill]

Like it so far. Thanks for your hard work

 

[ted]

Keep it coming! This is good.

 

[FMJ]

When Trisha and Charles bought the old house on Vanden Street in 2014, it had definitely become a fixer-upper. Years of neglect had taken a heavy toll on the once stately structure with roof leaks causing structural water damage. A city housing inspector made it clear that he would not issue an occupancy permit until the structure was repaired and brought up to code.
The estimates to renovate the old house to repair the damage were higher than the new owners had anticipated or could afford. They had only planned to invest enough to boost the value of the old house and then “flip it” for a profit before moving on. Their idea of renovation only went as far as new windows, a few plumbing fixtures and landscaping; definitely not major structural repairs. They complied with the letter of the law where it was visible and cheated everywhere else. Little by little, the old house began to look more acceptable and eventually barely passed a code inspection. Trisha and Charles asked for and were granted an exemption from the housing board to live in the house while they continued to repair it. Once safely out of the inspector’s scrutiny, Charles proceeded to unceremoniously rip apart the remaining solid portions of the structure for materials to make slip-shod repairs on the rest. The truth be told; Trisha and Charles were by all appearances, law-abiding citizens by day but pathetic, Satan-worshiping vermin by night.
Trisha had been born into a well-to-do family and had never wanted for anything while she was growing up. Her parents doted on her catering to her every whim and spoiled her terribly.

 

[FMJ]

When her childhood rebelliousness became uncontrollable tantrums, her parents decided that a Catholic girls school would provide the structure and discipline they were unable to enforce. Trisha was baptized and raised Catholic believing in God, but evidence surfaced at school that she was involved in witchcraft. Despite several warnings of dire consequences and punishments she suffered at the hands of the nuns, she was again discovered by a priest at midnight performing a black mass within a pentagram complete with black candles and a blood sacrifice. The priest was shocked and bewildered by her unrepentant behavior and sought the advice of the Bishop. After reviewing Trisha’s entire record, the Bishop felt no recourse but the Anathema. She was brought before the sanctuary bound and gagged where the Bishop and twelve priests with candles formally pronounced the rite of excommunication. The Bishop concluded the rite by closing the Bible and ringing a bell while the priests snuffed out their candles while intoning, “So be it, so be it.” Summarily excommunicated by bell, book and candle, expelled from school and unable to tolerate life at home; she struck out on her own. It wasn’t long before she met a kindred soul in Charles whom also had a rebellious streak and they began to concoct schemes to make easy money.
Trisha discovered a website on the internet to get information about witchcraft and eagerly responded. The couple found a coven in the area; was accepted with open arms and began participating in rituals. Charles was delighted to become an acolyte; wielding a knife to sacrifice animals and collect the blood for the coven’s unholy rites.

 

[FMJ]

On Sunday, June 21st of 2014, Father’s Day fell on the summer solstice, the longest day of the year and Feast Day of the coven. Trisha and Charles planned to celebrate the high Satanic holiday in the parlor of the old house with a blood sacrifice within a pentagram ringed with black candles followed by an orgy of sex in the pool of spilled blood.
As the time for the ritual approached, Charles smiled in anticipation as he watched the dark roiling storm clouds gather outside. The bright flash of lightning and the roll of distant thunder promised more than just a summer shower. What more fitting weather than a thunderstorm could he ask for on a high Satanic holiday? Fitful gusts of wind began to blow leaves about in little circles out on Vanden street as the time grew short. Trisha heard the first patter of raindrops on the window of the parlor as she tethered the animal they bought at the farmers market within the black pentagram. At the appointed hour, Trisha and Charles lit the black candles and entered the pentagram naked to begin the ritual. While reciting in unison the words of praise and adoration for their lord Satan, Charles slaughtered the animal and offered the blood for their lord’s pleasure.
Outside, the storm continued to build in intensity. The patter of raindrops increased to become a constant drum that poured down on rooftops overflowing gutters and poured into the street in the vain attempt to wash away the foul stain that both obscured the light and blinded men to the truth. Lightning flashed in strobe succession as loud peals of thunder shook the windows and walls of the old house continuously.

 

[FMJ]

The ritual concluded, Trisha and Charles prepared to consummate their foul union lying in the congealing pool of blood within the ring of guttering smoking black candles. In their passion, they did not feel the vibration as the storm grew in intensity. In the throes of their ecstasy, they did not perceive the threat as the wind began to hammer and batter at the roof and walls of the old house like a thing gone mad with vengeance. They did not see that final bolt of white hot fury stab down from the heavens to crash through the roof and sever the remaining structural supporting end of the massive oak timber in the attic like a matchstick.
With majestic grace, the jagged timber tipped downward freed of its last restraint and headed earthward with ever increasing speed shearing through plaster ceilings and oaken floors with righteous abandon. The great broken oak timber became a sharpened spear upon which the tortured grieving soul of the right Reverend Isaac Jones plunged straight through the pentagram and the entwined writhing bodies of the Satan worshipers on the floor of the parlor in the old house.
The news reported that a lightning bolt apparently set fire to the house consuming the entire structure despite the ferocity of the storm. Witnesses said that the flames that poured from holes in the house roared, burning with an intensity that could not be quenched by the combined efforts of three companies of fire fighting equipment. Despite their efforts, the old house burned to the ground and no bodies were ever recovered.

 

[ted]

Thank you, fitting ending. (that is if it is an ending.)

 

[ydderf]

and then :>) thanks FMJ

 

[teedee]

thanks sir

 

[FMJ]

Coming to an Understanding

FMJ​

The old house on Grinnell had stood as a testament to the solid and dependable nature of the builder for 90 years. Its hand hewn hickory beams, oak woodwork and tall stately columns became a landmark to be admired and emulated in other parts of the city. The thick walls and high ceilings of its many rooms had witnessed their share of grief and pain when the structure was pressed into service as an expedient hospital when old Trumbull General burned to the ground. It had survived a conflagration in 1922 that consumed lesser companions entire on both sides of the street while itself losing only the ornate carriage house. The terrible wind storm of 1945 flattened much of the west side but the old house on Grinnell had survived with only the loss of a few second story windows. Three generations of the same family were born and raised under that roof; laughing, loving and celebrating with their many friends. The house became their sanctuary as it protected the family from harm and the elements. In that last dark year, the health of the surviving matriarch of the last generation failed with terrible suddenness plunging her into a torment that her doctors could not explain and could do nothing to alleviate her terrible pain. There within the old house, in the master bedroom at the top of the stairs, she had suffered greatly in the throes of her anguish, moaning endlessly for days before finally succumbing to her death. It was widely rumored that the old house changed that night with the matriarch’s fearful passage from this world as though it was finally released from the responsibility of caring for her tortured spirit.

 

[FMJ]

Though the deed had changed hands at least a dozen times through the years, possession would invariably fall back to a relative of the founding family. The remaining members of which, steadfastly refused to set foot on the property in fear of their very lives.

The place took to being rented out only by tenants that were unaware of its history with the results ranging from hilarious to catastrophic. One couple arrived with much fanfare, moving in their personal effects and furnishings only to run from the place that very night nearly naked vowing to never return. One gentleman took up residence there only to be found a week later, hanging by the neck from a beam in the cellar. Police were puzzled by the appearance of the suicide because there was no chair upon which he would have stood to put his neck through the noose before kicking it away and the beam was too far above the floor to be reached by a man of his height. An old inspector was quoted as saying, “Unless a man be sore desperate to leave this world or he be lifted to the noose, there be no way he could have hung himself up there.”

Tales were told of doors that would open and close of their own accord and a family Bible that flew across the room with such great force that it was found embedded in a wall. Personal items would disappear only to be found out on the lawn broken. Wine glasses would be dashed to the floor while heavy mirrors would be discovered turned to face the wall. Chandeliers and curtains would sway when the air was deadly still while the house would creak and groan with the wind in the night.

 

[FMJ]

Rumors spoke of weird lights moving from room to room and strange sounds coming from the old house on Grinnell Street and all save a few intrepid souls ventured no closer than what their responsibility to repair or maintain the place required of them. The founding family, requiring neither an income from the dwelling nor a reason for it to be occupied, was content to allow the spirit of the matriarch peace in the old house alone.

 

[FMJ]

There came a day when a young man applied for a position and was hired by a business in the town. He moved to the town with his wife and new family to be close to his new place of employment. They were the proud parents of two beautiful blond baby girls and they were looking for a place to rent until they could save enough to buy a home on his meager salary. Finding the grand old vacant house on Grinnell Street and discovering that it was not only available but reasonable was a pleasant surprise. They set about moving their few possessions and furnishings into the house with the help of family and friends. The young man proudly led them on a tour of the grand old house pointing out the many rooms with their dark oak floors and tall ceilings and wide doors. His father was particularly impressed with the solid hickory beams supported by oak columns the size of trees in the cellar and commented that he had never before seen such quality and attention to detail in the woodwork.

The young family moved in without incident; the family members and friends, tired and happy for the young couple, said their goodbyes while the neighbors held their collective breath in fear and anticipation. The young family settled in for the night in the old house on Grinnell Street and dreamed of a promising future.

 

[FMJ]

The following day was Saturday and the young man got up early to make coffee for himself and his wife as was their custom. He busied himself on the main floor putting away the boxes of things that they had moved while cleaning up the mess that moving always made. He smiled as he listened to the sounds of his family waking and moving about upstairs as his wife tended to the little girls. Later, after she made breakfast and washed the dishes in the sink in the unfamiliar kitchen, she made a list of all the things that they would need from the grocery store. She decided to go to the grocery store early and bring the little girls with her. The young man had never been apart from his wife for more than a day since they were married and made a habit of kissing her and telling her that he loved her whenever they parted no matter for how short a time. He helped load the little girls into car seats and watched from the porch as she drove away.

 

[FMJ]

He whistled as he worked listening to the echoes that some rooms had before drapes or curtains were hung. He swept the dust from the porch tracked there by all the people who worked to help them move into this grand old house. Moving to the garage, he pulled out the lawnmower and quickly mowed the front and side lawns while catching all the clippings which he carefully poured into two big plastic cans he had bought just for that purpose. Next he edged the front walk, swept up the cuttings and added them to the clippings in the cans. Moving to the cellar, he swept cobwebs from the rafters above the washer and dryer and proceeded to sweep the floor around the huge white painted oak columns that had been worn smooth by the touch of many hands during the passage of many years.

 

[FMJ]

Going back upstairs to the main floor, he made himself another cup of coffee and sat down to rest for a moment while turning on the TV in the large living room. As he was watching the TV program, he heard the distinct creak of the bottom step of the great dark oak staircase that was clearly visible on one side of the large living room.

The young man slowly turned to look directly at the stairs as he realized he was the only person in the house and each step in turn spoke with its own particular voice in a slow measured cadence up out of sight to the second floor landing. The young man jumped up, ran to the kitchen, jerked open a drawer and grabbed the first formidable looking weapon he found, a butcher knife. Returning to the living room, he approached the stairs and each step spoke the same way with his own trembling steps as he made his way to the second floor. Room by room, he searched over, under and behind everything constantly at the ready for the as yet unseen threat. He even went up the attic stairs and made an inspection of the unfinished area there. Finding and seeing nothing, he made his way back to the main staircase where he sat on the middle stair half way between the floors still holding the butcher knife and feeling quite foolish.

 

[FMJ]

On a whim, the young man addressed the house aloud, patiently explaining who he was, why he was there and how long he planned to stay. He went on to say that he would not change the house in any way and would faithfully care for the house and grounds as if they were his own even though he was only a tenant. As he completed this monologue, the topmost step in the staircase creaked with its own distinctive voice causing the young man to jump in surprise. He quickly turned to look up at the empty stairway above him as his hair stood on end while each step spoke once more in a slow measured cadence towards where he sat trembling.
As the step above him spoke, the young man’s eyes went wide with fear but he was unable to move. When the step that he was sitting on creaked with its own voice, the oak step beneath him flexed as if a great weight had pressed down on it and then released as it passed on. Below him, the remaining steps in the staircase creaked and complained in succession as they had before. He sat very still for a few minutes and then quietly rose to return the butcher knife to the drawer in the kitchen.

 

[FMJ]

The young man decided not to share this experience with his wife when she returned from shopping because he was afraid of frightening her and he was also afraid that he might have imagined the entire thing. He had to admit that it certainly seemed real enough at the time.

When the young man saw his father again, he decided to confide in him and relate the entire experience including withholding it from his wife and why. The father was concerned at first when his son related the fantastic story until he saw the confusion and worry in his son’s face about frightening his wife. The father asked his son questions about his experience to satisfy himself that his son had not simply made some mistake about what he had heard. The young man’s father walked out in the yard and stood gazing up at the house with its tall windows when he heard a quiet cough. Turning in that direction, he saw an elderly neighbor looking his way through an arbor.

 

[FMJ]

“Hello,” he called in a friendly greeting as he walked towards the neighbor. “My son just rented this place,” he offered.
“It is a beautiful old house,” the neighbor replied quietly. “It has a bit of a history though…” the neighbor trailed off. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’m Mike,” he said extending his hand. The young man’s father shook his hand as they exchanged introductions.

Over the course of the next half hour, the father and the neighbor spoke quietly and earnestly concerning the colorful history of the old house in both fact and rumor. At the end of this exchange, the neighbor leaned forward and looked directly into the father’s eyes.

“I hope there haven’t been any problems?” he asked quietly.

“No, I don’t believe so,” the father replied uneasily.

The father thanked the neighbor again for his time and willingness to share the history of the old house before they parted company and the father walked back to the house.

The father approached his son and asked in confidence, “You did say that the stairs have not spoken again since the day you had your experience, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. The stairs still make noise but only when someone is actually walking on them. Why do you ask?” his son said puzzled.

“Well, let’s just say that you must have come to an understanding with someone that lived here a long time ago and we’ll leave it at that,” his father said giving him a big smile. “Now where are my little granddaughters?” he said smiling broadly.

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks

 

[feralferret]

Thank you for the new addition.

 

[FMJ]

You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoy them. I actually wrote these during one particularly dark funk in 2017. The response made me think that parts of BB&C were too off color or old houses in general had hit a nerve so I never uploaded the rest. There will be more.

 

[Griz3752]

You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoy them. I actually wrote these during one particularly dark funk in 2017. The response made me think that parts of BB&C were too off color or old houses in general had hit a nerve so I never uploaded the rest. There will be more.

I doubt I'm the only one here very happy to learn we can look forward to more.

Ready when you have time or inclination

Thank you

 

[FMJ]

Time is something I have in abundance. I shant be long.

 

[FMJ]

Hallowed Ground

FMJ​

The simple ceremony, a nod to an aged cleric obsessed with an outdated tradition, was belatedly conducted to dispel outlandish rumors concerning the building site selection. In the bottom of a deep excavation prepared to pour the foundation of the new church, the assembled clergy made ready to perform a rite of purification. Under lowering clouds and the threat of rain, the priest and attendants hastily prepared a fragrant smoking censer and a shaker of Holy Water on a make-shift altar to perform the rite surrounded by the Deacons and Pastors.

“Where is the Bishop?” one was heard to say. “I thought that only a Bishop could perform a consecration.”

“The Priest must have special permission,” whispered another.

“Hush, this is a purification and he is beginning,” whispered a third.

Though the flames were furtive, burning fitfully in the gathering wind, the pair of thick white candles symbolizing the light of God cast hard shadows on the make-shift altar as the Priest intoned the invocation. The gathering pressed forward to hear the words as the Priest raised his hands to the sky in supplication. The fragrant smoking censer carried by the Priest on a golden chain made three circuits around the altar as the words of the rite echoed from the rough earthen walls. As the priest lifted the silver aspergillum containing holy water to the sky intending to anoint and sanctify the site in the four cardinal directions of the compass, the first raindrop fell. And another, and another. At first, the assembly ignored the interruption and discomfort out of respect and reverence, but when a fat raindrop extinguished one of the altar candles, they began to glance around at the steep walls of the pit. Oblivious, the priest droned on, using the aspergillum to sprinkle holy water upon the ground in an attempt to purify the site while intoning the words of the ancient rite into the gathering storm.

 

[FMJ]

A dazzling forked bolt of lightning illuminated the assembly in stroboscopic succession and the simultaneous crash of thunder made them duck their heads involuntarily in fear as the rain began to fall. Startled, the priest unexpectedly halted the rite to gaze skyward as though seeing for the first time the lowering clouds. In that brief interval, the second altar candle flame guttered and went out with a hiss as the light of God was summarily extinguished from the altar.

“Perhaps we must consider rescheduling this rite of holy purification by the water and the word until after the storm has passed,” pronounced the priest to the murmured assent of the assembly. And if the priest had not then attempted to end the aborted ceremony in the additional decorum of a benediction with heads bowed in prayer further delaying their exit, the results might have been different. Most of them might have had time to scramble up the rickety, too short ladder placed at a precarious angle against the wall of the pit. A few stronger ones could have been able to scale the rain-slickened clay walls to escape.

But, at the end of the benediction, as the priest said, “Go in peace,” the assembly raised their heads in alarm when the ground shook hard and a rolling rumble was heard coming from the earth beneath their feet. Shrill screams and cries of alarm erupted as great clods of rain-slickened clay broke free to tumble down into the pit and several members of the assembly were knocked from their feet to fall into the mud. Cracks yawned open in the crude excavation floor belching sulfurous fumes lit from below by a fiery yellow light. As the rain fell in sheets the earth was jolted continuously by tremors and thick sulfurous fumes filled the pit engulfing the assembly.

 

[FMJ]

The authorities were alerted by shocked passers-by who discovered the flooded pit strewn with bodies on the day after the storm. The bizarre tragedy was blamed on a flash flood that filled a deep improperly shored excavation too quickly for the assembly to escape. A more in-depth investigation performed by a forensic pathologist found no evidence of water in the lungs as would be expected in autopsies of drowning victims. The cause of death, in every case, was determined to
be asphyxiation resulting from the inhalation of super-heated gas containing sulfur. In short, what apparently killed them was, fire and brimstone.

The church construction was halted.

 

[Mr Bill]

Ouch

 

[feralferret]

Thank you for the new.